


Unschooled Hands

by The_Arkadian



Series: The Apostate Chronicles [1]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-21 20:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Arkadian/pseuds/The_Arkadian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in response to a prompt on the dragonage_kink LJ (http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/5691.html?view=19334715#t19334715). Anders wanders off and gets into trouble. Fenris goes to find him. The healer gets hurt badly and is unable to heal himself; can Fenris get him to safety in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "I knew you'd be the death of me."

Hawke stared around the large cavern with a pleased expression as he wiped the blood from his blade. He glanced around at the rest of his companions as they moved around the cavern. Merrill was turning over bodies with Isabela, the pair of them crowing as they looted various "shinies"; Fenris stood to one side, glowering with distaste as he watched them. He was lounging near the passageway Anders had darted down a few minutes ago, claiming he'd "felt" something. He probably ought to go check everything was alright with the mage.

"Hawke! Come and take a look at this!" called Varric. Hawke glanced over at the dwarf, who was staring intently into a small chest. As Hawke wavered, Varric added, "This looks kinda important, wouldn't you say? Not to mention _expensive_."

Curiosity piqued, Hawke crossed the cavern towards Varric even as Isabela straightened, the pirate's ears practically pricking up at the word "expensive". "Fenris, go check on Anders," Hawke called back over his shoulder as he peered over Varric's shoulder and let out a low whistle.

"I am certain the mage can take care of himself," drawled the elf darkly as he straightened, his face twisting in disgust. Hawke stared back over his shoulder with a warning glare even as he reached for whatever was in the chest. "Fenris...."

The elf threw up a hand in resignation and turned away without a further word as Isabela craned her neck to see over Hawke and Varric's shoulders. "Oooh, pretty...." she crooned as Merrill came to join them. Shaking his head, the elf turned to the stone passage, hefting his sword as behind him the rest of the party admired the contents of the chest.

The elf could not help but continue scowling even as the stone passage led him further and further away from the cavern. How typical of the mage to dart off on his own after firefly dreams; the apostate was ridiculously impetuous. It was a wonder he'd survived this long, really. He shook his head, then paused as the sounds of shouts and fighting distantly echoes to him from somewhere ahead. It sounded like the mage had, indeed, succeeded in finding some sort of trouble.

Smiling grimly in anticipation, he hefted his blade and began to run.

As Fenris rounded the corner, Anders swung his staff in a wide circle, forcing back a group of darkspawn; around him lay the fallen bodies of many more.

Darkspawn? Here? But they were miles from the nearest entrance to the Deep Roads....

Shaking his head uneasily, Fenris swung his blade about his head and charged into battle. He may not like the mage, but he was damned if he were about to abandon him to the less than tender mercies of darkspawn.

Even as he reached the apostate's side, Anders cried out in dismay as he desperately tried to cast another spell only to have the magic fizzle and die upon his outstretched fingers, mana depleted. Fenris' blade neatly bisected the darkspawn as it leapt for Anders' throat; he pushed the mage aside as he moved swiftly to deal with the last two creatures, unheeding of Anders' brief cry as he stumbled and fell.

Fenris rose from his graceful crouch and began cleaning blood from his blade as he glanced around, confirming that nothing else moved in the cave apart from himself and the mage. He turned to gloat over having saved the apostate's hide... but the words died on his lips.

Anders lay sprawled on his back, one hand weakly clutching at the spear that protruded from his abdomen; a spear doubtless discarded by some other unfortunate in a previous battle. Fenris recalled thrusting the mage away; Anders stumbling, that brief cry... all too easily he could recreate in his mind's eye how it had happened. The mage's heel catching upon the fallen body of a darkspawn, his fall - the exposed point of the spear piercing his back as he fell, driven through his slender body by the force of his fall.

Fenris dropped to one knee beside the fallen mage, who plucked weakly at the spear, his amber eyes glazed with pain as he rolled his head to stare up at Fenris dully.

"Always knew... you'd be the death of me," he tried to grin.

The elf eyed the mage, raising one eyebrow. "I...apologise," he said slowly. "I did not intend...."

He fell silent; saying sorry would not change the situation. He waited for the inevitable sarcastic quip, but the mage was uncharacteristically quiet. Anders' eyes had fluttered half-closed, his breath shallow, face pale, skin waxen under the flickering light cast by those corpses still burning from his earlier spells.

Fenris reached for the spear shaft. "You should heal yourself," he said tersely as his gauntleted hand encircled the blood-slicked wood and he began to twist it free. The mage threw his head back and screamed in agony, clutching weakly at the elf's wrists as the shaft came free and fresh blood began to pump from the gaping wound in his stomach. Anders' scream tailed away to a hoarse sob as he pulled his hands back to clutch at the hole, twisting around until he lay upon his side, gasping and desperately trying to stem the blood that was soaking through his robes at an alarming rate.

"Why do you not heal yourself?" demanded Fenris, his eyebrows furrowing in a frown.

"No... no mana...." breathed Anders, closing his eyes and biting down upon his lip as pain bored through his body.

The elf stared down at the dying mage. How easy it would be to simply sit back and watch the apostate die... and yet.

And yet. It was not the bloodied hand that suddenly grasped his wrist that stayed him; nor was it the look of desperate pleading in the soft amber eyes. Was that, perhaps, a twinge of guilt he felt?

"Help me," whispered Anders softly. "Please."

"I... don't know how," replied Fenris quietly.

Anders groaned. "Lyrium?" he asked hopefully. Fenris shook his head.

"I have no need of it," he replied simply.

"M-my pouches...maybe...." He groaned in defeat as Fenris' unusually-gentle questing hands produced only shards of glass, what remained of the precious blue fluid dripping from his fingers. Fenris gestured with his wet hand towards Anders, and willingly the mage's lips parted to suck greedily at the scanty fluid. Fenris felt a strange thrill race up his arm at the sensation, stirring something inside. He turned his face away to hide the dark flush that suffused his cheeks, unbidden; Anders was oblivious however, as his eyes closed, tongue darting out to lick the final traces from his lips. A brief flare of blue light glowed around his hands as he pressed them to the wound, and Fenris drew a silent breath of relief as the bleeding slowed.  
All too soon however, the glow flickered and then died and Anders groaned. "Not enough," he breathed.

"I should fetch Hawke," decided Fenris, but Anders clutched at his wrist again.

"No! Please... don't leave me alone," he begged. "There are more darkspawn down here; I can feel them."

"But there is nothing more I can do here!" protested the elf angrily.

"Bandages," replied Anders, jerking his chin to indicate his discarded pack. "And elfroot powder. Should be enough to hold me together until we get out of here."

Fenris dragged the pack over to himself and began to root through it. He lifted out rolls of neatly-wound white cloth and stared at them. "I have no idea how to apply these," he confessed.

"I'll... direct you," replied Anders, his voice quieter and slightly slurred. Fenris paused and stared at the stricken mage as his eyelids fluttered.

"Mage?"

There was no answer.

"Anders?" he asked, voice quieter.

The only answer was a faint moan.

Frowning, the elf took hold of the fainting man's shoulders and shook them, none too gently; failing to rouse the mage, he pulled one spiked gauntlet off then slapped Anders hard on the cheek. Anders' eyes flew open as he cried out in protest.

"Your bedside manner leaves much to be desired," he managed hoarsely, somehow managing to grin in spite of his pain.

"Perhaps you prefer I leave you to bleed to death?" suggested the elf dryly. Anders glanced down at the torn, ichor- and blood-spattered mess his robes had been reduced to and grimaced.

"I fear I would be a less than beautiful corpse," he mused. He caught Fenris' wrist once more in his fragile grasp, the lightness of his words belying the desperation in his eyes. The elf stilled.

"I will not leave you," said the elf quietly.

Anders sagged back against the stone floor with a look of relief as Fenris picked up the bandages once more, his expression one of mild perplexity. "I am unfamiliar with the healing arts," he confessed. "It was... not a skill my master felt I needed."

Anders gestured at the pack. "There are herbs and ingredients in there... show me the packs...."

Obediently the elf began pulling small packages out from the pack; Anders indicated the ones he needed with a gesture of blood-stained fingers, the other hand still clutching at the wound. "Elfroot, yes.... no, not the deep mushrooms....yes, that flask there...."

"What is in it?" asked the elf, holding up the small flask and peering at the clear, slightly-green liquid.

"Heatherum and Foxite," explained Anders, closing his eyes as the pain of the wound flared insistently. "Helps increase the efficacy of other stuff. Maker knows I need all the efficacy I can get right now."

Under the mage's direction, Fenris carefully mixed elfroot with the liquid in the palm of his hand. Anders frowned at the resulting mixture; it didn't look quite right - not the right colour, and there were too many lumps, but the elf was unskilled and he himself in no condition to do better. It would have to do. That brief burst of healing magic had not been enough; he knew that if he tried to move or fend for himself, the wound would simply rip open again. He could feel himself steadily weakening even just lying here upon the floor; the cold of the stone seemed to be sinking into his bones with each passing minute.

Fenris paused as he smeared the poultice onto a wad of clean cloth, and Anders glanced up. There was an unfamiliar expression upon the elf's face as he regarded the pale mage.

"What?"

"Why does the demon inside you not do something?" he asked, curiously.

"Justice is not a demon!" retorted Anders, levering himself up onto one elbow before falling back with a gasp. The flare of anger helped drive back the bleak feeling of hopelessness that had began to grow within him, but the brief burst of energy it gave him was short-lived, and already he was paying for it as pain racked his body. "He can do nothing when my mana is so depleted," he finally managed to gasp out when he could draw breath again against the pain.

Fenris peeled aside the folds of the ruined robes then lifted the hem of the blood-soaked shirt beneath as Anders hissed softly. Fenris raised an eyebrow at the bloody mess thus revealed; what little magic Anders had managed to draw from the lyrium had barely begun to knit the rent flesh back together inside, and the wound still gaped open.

"This will hurt," the elf said tersely in forewarning before pressing the poultice into place.

Anders cried out, his voice a hoarse sob as his body shuddered against the flare of renewed pain. His hands flew to grasp at Fenris' hand as it applied pressure steadily to the wound, and it was the elf's turn to gasp as their skin touched, the lyrium in his brandings instantly flaring into white light at the contact.

Again, the elf felt that strange sensation within as the lyrium sang within his skin, even as Anders' eyes glazed over with a fierce blue haze and spirit energy danced crackling over the mage's waxy, pale skin. Fenris instinctively tried to pull back even as a blue glow enveloped the hands clutching his, but the inhuman glare seemed to transfix him as the lyrium sang in a way he had never felt before.

Then within a few moments, the blue glow faded, the eyes fluttered then rolled back into Anders' head, and the mage slumped, unconscious, his limp fingers releasing Fenris' hand at last and falling away as Anders' head rolled bonelessly to one side. Fenris reached out a tentative hand to brush away the disheveled blond hair which had come loose from its tie, and carefully feel for the pulse at the throat. After a moment he drew a breath with a faint sound which might have been relief as he felt the thready fluttering of life beneath the pale, clammy skin. The mage was alive, at least.

He cautiously peeled back a corner of the poultice; the bleeding had stopped, and the wound looked a little better. Not fully healed, but he no longer feared the mage might expire in his arms the moment he tried to lift him. He replaced the poultice and began to wind bandages awkwardly around the unconscious man's torso, reflecting that this part of the job would likely have been easier had Anders still been awake. He managed to haul the slender man up to rest his head upon the elf's shoulder, limp arms draped loosely about Fenris' neck and out of the way whilst he knelt and bound the wound as firmly as he could. He was aware he was doing a less than neat job, but all that mattered was that it kept the mage in one piece till he could get him back to help.

As he laid the mage down, it finally occurred to him to wonder what the hell was keeping Hawke and the others.


	2. "They're coming."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and the others have a little trouble; Fenris and Anders banter.

Hawke slowly wiped the ichor from his blade and frowned.

“Everyone all right?” he called out, casting his eyes over the rest of the party. Merrill was leaning over Isabela who had a nasty looking gash that ran down the back of her arm from the shoulder then spiralled around to her forearm and ended at her wrist just above the base of her thumb. Hawke winced inwardly at the sight; it was something that Anders could tackle and never even leave a scar, but he was less confident of Merrill's capabilities with healing magic. Varric was rooting around in his backpack for a healing potion and some bandages.

They had been caught unawares; one moment they'd been busy dividing up the loot, setting a few interesting trinkets to one side for Anders, and sharing out the gold with Hawke pouching up Anders' and Fenris' shares. Then suddenly without warning darkspawn had started erupting into the large cavern; there'd been too many to see which of the several smaller passageways they'd emerged from. There'd been a mixture of hurlocks and genlocks, with an emissary leading them; it had been a closer fight than Hawke was comfortable with.

He knew they would have wiped the floor with them easily if Anders and Fenris had been there, Damn it, where _were_ they? He stomped over towards Isabela and Merrill as the pirate gratefully took a long pull from the bottle Varric held out to her then pulled a face.

“You'd think they could put something in it to make the damned things taste more bearable,” she grimaced.

“Medicine's not supposed to taste nice,” replied Merrill affably. “I think it's supposed to remind you not to get hurt next time. Kind of like a liquid 'I told you so.'”

Varric and Isabela exchanged glances, then glanced up at Hawke.

“How's the arm?” he asked, coming to a halt beside Isabela and staring down at the gash as Merrill took the bandages and started binding the arm; the potion had done a fair work of healing but the long red line still looked angry and ugly.

“Still attached,” replied Isabela. “Not so sure I want to go through another fight like that one though. Where's Anders when you need him?”

“Doubtless getting into trouble on his own,” replied Varric. “Blondie has a knack for that.”

“But he's not alone,” replied Merrill. “Fenris went after him. So he's getting into trouble with Fenris.”

Isabela groaned. “He's _always_ getting into trouble with Fenris,” she remarked. “Just not the _right_ kind of trouble. I'd say they should get a room and get some of that tension out between them, but I doubt the room would be left standing afterwards.”

“Wherever they are, we'd best go find them,” replied Hawke. “Preferably before more darkspawn arrive.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris contemplated just throwing the mage over his shoulder, then decided against it. The spiked pauldrons of his armour digging into his wound were the last thing the mage needed, and having patched him up as best as he was able he didn't see any point to undoing his work. He hefted up Anders' staff and tied it to the apostate's backpack, then slung it over his shoulder, careful to leave his greatsword free in case of need. He stared down at the unconscious mage and huffed errant strands of white hair out of his eyes.

Though taller than the elf, the man was remarkably light, his frame gaunt and spare. He'd likely be a light enough burden, if a somewhat ungainly one. Fenris knelt upon one knee and carefully gathered Anders into his arms, much as he would have carried a child, the mage's head lolling limply until his cheek rested against Fenris' armoured bicep as Fenris rose to his feet.

“Don't get too used to this,” he muttered to the oblivious man as he started back up the long passageway to the main cavern. There was no answer. Fenris was disquietened to realise that he was rather starting to miss the man's irritating quips and remarks, though wild horses would never have dragged the admission from his lips had Anders been awake.

“This is all your own fault,” he continued tersely. “If you hadn't been so impetuous and rushed off down here like that, this would never have happened. You're a danger to yourself and a liability.”

There was no answer. He didn't expect one.

He wondered idly what Isabela would make of this; his expression darkened as he mused that she'd likely already have a whole story mapped out in her head when Hawke told her he'd gone after the mage. He did not look forward to her inevitable ribald comments when he reappeared with Anders cradled in his arms like some fainting maiden.

He snorted aloud at that; Anders could be likened to many things, but an innocent blushing maid was not one of them. Upon that, he and the mage were (for once) in agreement, he felt.

“If... you're going to have... a conversation with yourself,” Anders murmured hoarsely, “You could at least do it aloud and let me in on the fun.”

Fenris started in surprise and stared down at the man in his arms.

“I was not aware you were awake,” he said quietly.

“I've been swept off my feet by a ravishingly broody elf; I wouldn't miss this for the world.”

Fenris grunted and scowled.

“Do tell me there will be ravishing later? I'd hate to think you speared me for nothing,” Anders went on.

Fenris halted. “I did not spear you,” he replied testily. “It was an accident. And there will be no ravishing.” He glared down at the mage, who wore a knowing smirk, but did not set him down. “Perhaps you prefer to walk?”

“Not really,” admitted Anders. “I suspect I might do something terribly girly such as faint.” He eyed the elf out of the corner of his eye. “I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you? The fragile wilting-flower mage proving you right once again?”

“You _are_ pitifully weak,” replied the elf. “You are nothing without your magic. You are helpless without my sword to protect you should we run into more darkspawn. You rely on Hawke to protect you even from yourself.”

“I shan't deny the darkspawn bit,” admitted Anders, raising one hand and flexing his fingers, seeking the slightest trace of mana; there was nothing however, and he let his hand drop with a frustrated sigh then winced.

After a few moments, Fenris started on up the passage again, concentrating on where he placed his feet as the path became steeper. Anders was silent for a while, and Fenris wondered if he'd passed out again; but a glance downwards showed that the mage was silent in thought, the slow blink of his lashes showing he was still awake. He was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth, and as Fenris watched, one eye to the path ahead, he began to frown and that frown then slowly deepened.

“What?” asked Fenris quietly as Anders' head turned slowly.

“They're coming,” the mage replied quietly. “I can feel them.”

Fenris halted and swung round to stare back down the path. “Behind us?”

Anders shook his head. “No. In front.”

Fenris stared back up at the tunnel ahead. “How is that possible?”

“I don't know. Parallel passages to this one perhaps. I only know I can feel them, and they're on the move.”

“Hawke. And the others.” Their eyes met in mutual understanding.

“Maker's balls,” swore Anders quietly.

“Indeed.”

For once, they were both in complete accord.


	3. "Why don't you leave me then?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris pushes Anders' buttons.

Fenris shifted his grip upon the mage, who hissed softly in pain.

“I cannot fight with you in my arms,” the elf said quietly, flicking his eyes up the path ahead then back the way they had come, straining his ears for sounds of pursuit.  
“I know,” replied Anders testily. “And I'm useless in a fight without my magic.”

“Can you stand?”

The elf carefully set the mage down, but kept a supporting arm around his waist as Anders swayed slightly, paling. Fenris shrugged the pack off his shoulder so Anders could retrieve his staff. He leaned heavily upon it, gritting his teeth. He glanced down at the elf's supporting hand.

“Why Fenris, I didn't know you cared,” he smirked. The elf whipped his hand away as though the mage's flank had suddenly become red-hot

“Don't flatter yourself, mage,” he hissed, drawing his blade before swinging the pack back up onto his shoulder. He took a step towards the passageway out, then glanced back at the apostate. “You say you can feel the darkspawn?”

Anders nodded. “It's like a scratching against the inside of my mind,” he replied. “The more there are, or the closer they are, the louder it feels. It's an... unwholesome feeling.” He shuddered, glancing down at his hands where they clutched the staff, knuckles white with the effort of staying upright.

“How many?”

Anders closed his eyes and cocked his head slightly to one side, as though listening to the scratching inside his head. He turned his head slightly, “seeing” sightlessly as he concentrated, before opening his eyes to return the elf's stare.

“More than we could handle, even were I not injured and mana-less,” he sighed. “If we were with Hawke and the others... twenty or thirty, plus I can feel four emissaries. And something... big.”

“Something?” queried Fenris, raising an eyebrow. Anders frowned and shook his head.

“I don't know what it is. I've never felt anything quite like it before. All I know is, it's big and it has the stench of the taint all through it. And I don't want to get close enough to find out what it is.”

“Where is it?”

Anders turned and jerked his head to indicate the path ahead.

“Then we go this way,” replied Fenris “We passed side passages. We'll find a way round.” Taking Anders' right arm, he draped it over his shoulder and encircled the mage's waist with his left arm, keeping his sword arm free. Anders leaned heavily upon his staff, and they set off back down the passageway, Anders' progress slow and halting.

As they moved on, Fenris darted the odd look sidelong at Anders, attempting to keep the frustration and impatience he felt off his face. The slender man was pushing himself hard and moving as fast as he were capable; sweat was slowly trickling down the side of his face and as Fenris watched, a brief pained look flashed across Anders' face and he stopped, biting his lip. Fenris paused.

“You are in much pain,” he remarked quietly.

“No, I just like stopping for no good reason whilst being pursued by darkspawn,” Anders hissed. “Thought I'd admire the view.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow at the flash of anger in the amber-brown eyes before narrowing his own gaze.

“I told Hawke you'd be a liability,” he said coolly. “Without your magic you're useless, a burden.”

Anders jerked as though stung. “Useless, am I?” he growled, and shoved the elf away from his side. “If I'm so useless, why are you bothering to save my _worthless_ apostate hide?”

Fenris regarded him with a supercilious sneer. “Only because I'd never hear the end of it from Hawke. You didn't think I saved you for _your_ own sake did you?”

>Anders straightened, a dangerous blue glow flickering to life within the golden depths of his eyes. “You bastard,” he said quietly “It was your fault I was injured.”

"Because you were weak and useless and tripped over your own feet. Shall we add clumsy to useless and worthless?”

Anders stared at him silently, his face immobile and mask-like, the golden-brown eyes becoming glass-like before hardening.

Fenris crossed his arms and merely watched him. After a moment, Anders turned on his heel and determinedly began to limp away, leaning heavily upon his staff with one hand, the other arm clutched tightly around his waist. Fenris swung into stride easily just behind the mage with a satisfied smirk.

Good. Let the mage channel his anger. They may yet get out of this alive....

 

* * *

 

Anders strode determinedly on, gritting his teeth against the pain. He schooled his face into a blank mask; he was damned if he were going to give the elf further cause to tease him for his weakness. Bastard elf. If Fenris hadn't shoved him out of the way, he would never have fallen; and yet he had the gall to put him down over his infirmity now?

And yes, the elf's words had hurt. It were as though he'd reached into Anders' own mind and dragged out his own fears; he despised being vulnerable like this. Without his magic he was less than nothing; just a burden, useless, unable to even defend himself – and slowing them both down. Bad enough to have realised this and have the black feeling twist like a snake in his gut around a cold stone of fear; another thing entirely to have Fenris, of all people, throw it back in his face.

As he stumbled on, pushing himself harder, he could hear the quiet pad of the elf's bare feet on the stone floor just behind him. He was glad the elf had finally shut up. Why, in the name of Andraste's flaming farts, had Hawke sent _Fenris_ to find him?

His foot caught on an even bit of floor and he stumbled, catching himself on his staff before he could fall. The sudden jerk and twisting motion caused his wound to flare in renewed agony and he couldn't quite bite back his low cry in time. He staggered to the support of the nearest wall and leaned against it, breathing heavily as he pressed his hand against the bandages, feeling a spreading dampess there.

“Anders....”

“Don't touch me!” snapped the mage, his head snapping round as the elf reached for his shoulder. “I want neither your help nor your pity!”

Fenris let his hand hover a few inches from the feathered pauldron before dropping to his side. “As you wish,” he said quietly, before moving on ahead down the tunnel.

Anders pulled his hand away and bit his lip. Not good. He flexed his fingers, and breathed an inaudible sigh of relief as the faintest aura of power responded to his will, the mana pooling like liquid air in his palm, cool and reassuring. Pressing his hand back over the stained bandages, he willed the magic into his damaged body, focussing on closing torn blood vessels and rekniting rent muscle.

“Mage, if you don't move now, I _will_ leave you,” called back the elf from the entrance to a side tunnel a short way down the passage.

“Maker curse you,” muttered Anders, closing his eyes and pouring what scanty reserves of mana he could dredge up into healing himself. It was all too little however, and all too soon he felt the last dregs of power drain away.

t still wasn't enough, and Maker, but he felt so tired. It would have to be enough.

Dragging himself back wearily upright, he began to limp on down the tunnel towards the impatiently-waiting elf.

“Why don't you leave me?” he demanded as he drew level with the elf. Fenris regarded him coolly, then turned away down the side tunnel without answer. Anders glared at the armoured back and silently mouthed, _I hate you._

Slowly, he followed after, the tainted feelings of scratching in his mind growing all the while.


	4. Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Justice has a little word with Fenris

“Watch your step,” remarked the elf neutrally. The mage didn't answer; Fenris withstood the temptation to glance back over his shoulder. He had no doubt that Anders' eyes were glaring balefully at his armoured back. If looks could kill... A small smirk caused the corners of his lips to quirk upwards. At least whilst the mage was engaged in fierce hatred of the elf, his mind was no longer wholly upon his wound or the pursuing darkspawn. And it had a handy side effect of shutting him up.

As the tunnel descended lower, it began to narrow and the ceiling grew lower. The passageway was lit only by some strange moss that grew at the base of the stone walls and occasionally in patches stretching up across the walls themselves; it cast everything in a sickly green glow. Fenris glanced back as Anders' footsteps behind him faltered; the mage's face looked ghastly in the eerie half-light, like one moving through a nightmare.

Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but Anders held up a hand to silence him. “They're coming,” he muttered, looking as though he were about to be sick.

“What's wrong with you?” Fenris asked, frowning.

“Why do you care?” shot back the apostate, his lip curling. Fenris was silent for a moment, then took a step back towards the mage as the blond man leaned wearily against his staff, letting his head droop. “Anders-”

The blond head rose, and inhuman electric blue eyes regarded him coldly as spirit energy danced over the man's skin. “ _You are killing him._ ”

Fenris took an involuntary step back. “Abomination,” he breathed, then, louder, “Justice, I presume?”

“ _You drive him too hard. You blame him for his wounds which are your fault!_ ”

Fenris shook his head. “No. I regret that he was injured. I blame myself.”

“ _Then why-_ ”

“Anger is a useful tool when channelled into energy,” replied the elf. “But what of you? You've been suspiciously quiet thus far. Why don't you heal him yourself? Or would you prefer your willing host die down here?”

Justice/Anders took a step forward, swaying. He held himself upright only with great difficulty; it was clear that Anders' body was weakening fast.

“ _I am a spirit of justice. I know nothing of healing. I have the power, but lack the skill to direct it. You are driving him beyond what little endurance he has, and you will kill him._ ” He sank down to one knee, bracing a hand against the rock wall. Fenris leaned forward and lifted him back to his feet, slipping an arm around the frail body that was trembling with the effort to stay upright.

“He said nothing,” said Fenris quietly.

“ _He would not,_ ” replied the spirit hollowly. “ _He has little left save his pride._ ”

“Then why-”

“ _Darkspawn are coming. Many darkspawn. I can hold them off, but it will utterly deplete us both. You must carry him to Hawke._ ”

Fenris scowled. “I prefer to fight,” he growled. “I am no beast of burden for an over-talkative mage and his pet demon!”

“ _I AM NO DEMON!!_ ” Justice's eyes blazed with a fierce fire as spirit energy blazed over the mage's pale flesh. Fenris' eyes widened and he recoiled momentarily before instinctively lashing out, phasing the hand that supported the mage's body so that instead, it passed through his ribs and sank into his chest as every lyrium line upon the elf's body flared into brilliant silvery light.

Justice threw his head back and screamed, an unearthly howling that echoed around them until Fenris' hand were ringing; he was barely aware of it above the impossibly loud singing of the lyrium in his skin, his very blood. The lyrium was calling, and he could feel the answering touch of power from deep inside Anders' body as the abomination sank to its knees. Fenris sank down to the ground before him, letting his phased hand pass further down the man's body until it rested within the wound. He held it there, and Justice quietened, lowering his head slowly.

“ _The lyrium... I can feel it,_ ” the spirit said quietly.

“Bring back Anders,” growled the elf. “Now.”

Justice narrowed its eyes. Fenris flexed his fingers, and the spirit cried out in pain.

“I need to speak to Anders, not Justice!” the elf snapped. “I will not ask again!”

The spirit glared at him balefully, then slowly the blue glow faded until it was only Anders who blinked his soft brown eyes wearily. His eyes dropped to Fenris' wrist and realised where the elf's hand must be, and tensed stiffly.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he whispered.

“I'm trying to help you,” replied Fenris testily. “Can you feel my lyrium?”

Anders closed his eyes and nodded.

“Can you use it?”

“I... can try,” replied Anders uncertainly. “I've never-” He broke off suddenly and stared up at Fenris, eyes snapping open. “Darkspawn coming.”

Fenris heard them too at that moment; many feet, coming directly towards them down the tunnel. Fenris drew back his hand as Anders hauled himself upright by his staff and turned to face the way they had come.

“The way is too narrow,” growled Fenris. “You're in my way, and there's not room to swing my sword!”

Anders shook his head. “This is the place for magic,” he replied steadily.

“But how? You said yourself that you have no mana left!”

Anders looked back over his shoulder, and his eyes were once again blue with flame.

“ _I will drive them back._ ”

Fenris nodded slow understanding. “And after?”

The spirit regarded him silently then turned away. Fenris stared over his shoulder; he could hear the enemy drawing closer. He stepped in close behind the mage, and gently phased his hand through his wounded back. The silvery lyrium lines glowed softly. “Take what you need,” he said quietly. “For both of you.”

There was a movement far up ahead; a wavering of the dull green light emanating from the moss that slowly resolved itself into shadowy dark forms that slunk towards them. The light from Justice and from Fenris' lyrium brands reflected off dark eyes that stared coldly inhuman at them as just two more pieces of prey.

“ _NOW!_ ” roared Justice, and Fenris let the power flow through him into the mage's slender body as flickering blue-white flames erupted from the earth all around them, sweeping upwards and coalescing into a large ball of fire which then hurtled away from them towards the oncoming darkspawn as Justice flung out a gesturing hand, directing the flames towards their target.

And then the world exploded.


	5. The Man and the Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris wrestles with his conscience.

Something heavy was pinning him down. He tried to roll over, but the weight upon his legs held him firmly. He ached all over from myriad bruises, and his right arm and side of his face stung as though scorched. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking in the darkness. His eyelashes were caked with dust. He lifted a hand and tugged his gauntlet off with his teeth then wiped his eyes. He concentrated a little, and his lyrium markings slowly flared into life, bathing the area with their soft silvery white glow. He glanced around.

Anders was sprawled beneath him, unconscious. Blood was matting his blond hair and had trickled down the side of his face, and fresh blood was staining his bandages. Fenris pressed two fingers against the side of Anders' throat and relaxed a little when he felt the pulse, steady and slow. At least he wasn't dead. Fenris rested back upon his elbow and considered their situation.

As the ball of flame had exploded in the tunnel, the back-blast had washed back towards them even as Anders had started to slowly crumple to the ground, drained and exhausted beyond the point of collapse. Fenris had grabbed the fainting mage around the waist and bodily dragged him backwards as he fled back down the tunnel. He hadn't been quite fast enough; the flame had rolled over the top of him, scorching the side of his face and his arm as he lifted it to protect himself as he threw them both to the ground, protecting the unconscious mage with his own body.

Then the tunnel behind them, weakened by the blast, had collapsed inwards, sending boulders and rocks hurtling and bouncing down the narrow path. They had been trapped in the rock fall.

He could see no sign of Anders' staff, but he still had the backpack and his greatwsord – not that either were much use at this point, hemmed in by rocks as they were. Their legs were pinned down by several boulders and a tumble of smaller rocks and gravel. By kicking and wriggling his legs, Fenris was able to slowly dislodge them, and he gradually worked himself free. Then sliding his hands under Anders' shoulders, he began to carefully pull him free until he had the mage safely cradled in his arms, battered and bloody but still alive. Then he looked at the wall of fallen rock blocking the way back.

They certainly wouldn't be able to return that way, but at least the darkspawn wouldn't be able to pursue them down that path either. He wondered how many Justice had managed to destroy with his fireball.

He stared down at the unconscious man in his arms. Anders looked to be in a pretty bad state, but in the poor half-light from his lyrium markings and the glowing green mosses along the walls he couldn't make a proper examination of him. He would have to hope for the best and keep going, trusting that the tunnels would lead back to the main cavern and not straight into another horde of darkspawn. He set off carefully, the apostate a limp dead weight in his arms as he inched his way sideways through the narrow passageway.

He tried not to think too hard about the warm dampness he could feel seeping through the mage's bloodied and tattered robes.

 

* * *

 

Hawke doubled over coughing as he stumbled out into the fresh air, Isabela just behind him and not faring much better. A glance back reassured him that Varric had Merrill well in hand and they were both alright – or as alright as they could be, considering the roof of the cavern had dropped on them and very nearly crushed them.

He made his way to a nearby treestump and sat down, pulling out a rag and starting to clean the gore from his blade. If sheathed it in that state, it would glue itself to the leather and the ichor would pit the metal. He set to work.

“What in the name of the Maker's blue balls happened back there?” growled Isabela, spitting to rid her throat of rock dust before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“The roof fell in,” replied Merrill simply as she sank down onto the cool grass then ran a hand through dusty hair.

“I _know_ that,” said Isabela in exasperation. “I mean, _why_ did it fall in? That must have been one hell of an explosion to cause it to shift like that.”

“Well, I guess it answered the question of whether Blondie is still alive,” observed Varric, unslinging Bianca and starting to wipe her down.

“Or was, at any rate,” replied Hawke quietly. He stared back at the cave mouth, where dust still billowed like grey-brown smoke, the haze curling in lazy tendrils in the late afternoon sun.

“D'you think they'll make it? Fenris and Anders?” asked Merrill quietly. Isabela shrugged. Varric bent over the stock of Bianca, saying nothing. The elf glanced up at Hawke, who stared down at the blade across his knee, hands stilling upon the rag.

“We'll stay till dawn,” he said quietly.

“And then?” she asked, her voice hushed.

Hawke shook his head but did not answer. After a while, his hands began to work cleaning the blade once more, obsessively polishing out every last speck of dirt even though the blade already gleamed.

Merrill drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, turning her gaze back to the empty mouth of the cave.

“I miss Anders,” she said quietly.

 

* * *

 

Fenris paused as he inched cautiously along the passageway. From somewhere up ahead, he thought he could hear the sounds of running water; the tunnel seemed to grow lighter, too, though that may have been his imagination. It was hard to be sure of anything in these labyrinthine tunnels; sound carried oddly, and the strange light from the moss cast uncertain shadows. Several times he had thought he saw something moving out of the corner of his eye, only to realise it had simply been his own shadow.

Anders had not stirred once, not even to murmur a protest when Fenris had stumbled, catching the mage's limp hand roughly against the rock walls. More than once the elf had paused and held his own breath, listening to check that Anders still lived.

If forced to admit it, even if only to himself, Fenris was beginning to find a grudging admiration for the tenacious way the mage still clung to life. He was no longer entirely sure it was his sense of duty to Hawke and the burden of his own guilt that kept him going instead of abandoning the apostate to his fate. Everything he had ever known or been taught screamed that mages could not, must not be trusted; everything they touched turned to ruin and regret. And Anders was an abomination; he had willingly accepted a spirit into himself in an unholy bargain.

And yet....

Fenris shook his head stubbornly. No. He only tolerated the mage to live because Hawke found him useful; no other reason. Were he not under the man's protection, Fenris would have ripped the mage's heart out without a second thought or regret long ago.

Wouldn't he?

He faltered, and stared down at the deathly pale face of the man he carried. The man he should, by rights, hate merely for existing. The man who- no, the _abomination_ who should not be tolerated to live. Would it not be a mercy to end his life? To sever the unholy tie between his soul and that of the demon that inhabited his flesh? He had seen, spoken with that entity; seen its alien nature with his own eyes. He had seen it possess the slender mage; witnessed the carnage it could wreak. It would be a kindness to liberate the man's soul from such servitude.

And yet....

He had seen those soft brown eyes regarding his patients with compassion as he healed them. He had watched the man selflessly toiling in his clinic, working himself to exhaustion and yet never turning away any who needed him. He had seen the mage throw himself in the path of danger to heal Hawke and their companions, time and time again. Even he, Fenris, had been the recipient of the apostate's healing talents, in spite of the derision and hatred Fenris had shown him.

He stared down at the unconscious man in his arms for long moments, listening to the faint rasp of his breathing.


	6. Until Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke opens up to Varric, whilst Fenris feels helpless.

Hawke stared down at his hands. The blade had passed the point of clean hours ago, but still he mechanically buffed the polished steel which glinted in the light of the fire. From time to time he glanced up at the cave mouth, eyes narrowing beneath the fierce frown that had not left his face since they had emerged from the cave without the mage and the elf. Not for the first time, he berated himself for having sent Fenris.

He had been aware of the others regarding him quizzically as the afternoon had given way to evening, but as they'd set camp he had remained seated on the treestump, polishing his sword and watching the cave mouth, silent and brooding. Merrill had brought him a bowl of broth which sat on the ground near his feet, untouched and long since cooled.

“You're not fooling anyone, kiddo,” remarked Varric quietly as he came to stand next to Hawke.

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Varric,” replied Hawke coolly, his eyes on his sword as his hands continued to polish nonexistant specks of dirt from the gleaming blade.

“You may fool Merrill with all your gruff talk and growling, but I can see you're worried sick about Anders.”

“He's our only healer. Of course I'm worried.”

“It's more than that, kiddo.” The dwarf's hand came to rest on Hawke's shoulder, and the man's hands stilled on the blade. Hawke lowered his head and was silent for a while.

“How long have you known?” he finally asked Varric quietly.

“Long enough,” Varric replied. “You've tried to hide it; I guess in your own way you were trying to deny it to yourself. But I recognise the signs of one who's head over heels kiddo.”

“I tried to keep my distance,” replied Hawke quietly.

“For what?” asked Varric, seating himself companionably on a nearby rock. “So you can make the both of you miserable instead of just yourself?”

“What do you mean?” asked Hawke, dropping his rag.

“Why do you think Blondie is always willing to drop everything at a moment's notice to come with us? Even when it means you dragging him away from his clinic?”

“I....” Hawke's voice faltered and then he groaned. Dropping his face to his hands. “I've made a mess of things, haven't I?” Varric's hand tightened upon his shoulder in sympathy. “Do you think Anders guessed?”

“You've been turning a cold shoulder to him and doing your damnedest to give the impression you're oblivious to his existence, but it doesn't seem to have put him off. You should see the puppy-dog eyes he gives you when he thinks you're not looking.”

Hawke glanced back at the cave mouth. “I'm not leaving here without him and Fenris.”

“Oh, you remembered the elf then,” remarked Varric. “I was beginning to wonder.”

“Fenris can handle himself just fine,” replied Hawke tersely.

“Oh, I'm sure he can,” remarked the dwarf with a wink. Hawke rolled his eyes.

“Anders has only his magic. If he's out of mana... Fenris can defend himself fine.”

Varric nodded. “So that's why you sent the elf, even though he hates the mage's guts?”

Hawke snorted. “Fenris tolerates Anders well enough when he needs his healing.”

“Here's hoping it's not the other way round then, because I doubt the elf would know what to do with a healing kit,” replied Varric. “So, we're going back in there at dawn?”

Hawke nodded. Varric clapped him on the back. “Good lad. Now eat your broth.” He gave the armoured shoulder a last pat before making his way back to the camp.

Hawke stared at the cave entrance for a while. Then he picked up the bowl and slowly began to eat the cold stew.

 

* * *

 

Fenris eased Anders gently down onto the stone floor next to the underground stream before shucking the pack, letting it fall to the ground as he knelt down by the water's edge. He glanced around the cavern as he stripped off his gauntlets. The rock chamber was empty, lit by sunlight from far above that filtered down through crevices in the rock. Fenris bent low over the water and scooped up a handful of water before cautiously tasting it. The water was clear and cold, with a faint metallic tang of minerals but otherwise seemed fine, so he drank deeply before unslinging his leather water canteen and filling it.

Then he turned his attention to the mage. The side of Anders' face was caked in dried blood, his hair matted with the stuff. Fenris pulled a handful of cloth bandage out of the backpack and dipped it into the stream, then set to work carefully cleaning the blood and dirt off the unconscious man's face. He let the water soak into the dirty blond hair then tried to clean out the blood as best he could, combing his fingers through the long silky strands. He turned Anders' face to one side so he could get a better look at the head wound. The cut seemed quite small, but the flesh around it was bruised and swollen. He carefully probed the area around it, trying to ascertain if the skull were broken; it seemed intact. He frowned and shook his head. All his training had been in myriad ways to kill someone, not how to heal them. He was painfully aware that he was out of his depth. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from Anders' closed eyes, then paused, his palm cupped against the stubbled cheek.

He stared down at Anders, and reflected that he had never really _looked_ at the man before. He turned Anders' head gently and regarded his face thoughtfully. He'd never really considered Anders, the man, before; he had always been “the mage” or, more frequently, “the abomination”, and Fenris had looked upon him as little as possible, frequently with feelings of disgust and revulsion. He represented everything the elf hated most, and he just would. Not. Shut. Up.

And yet now he was silent, unconscious and vulnerable, Fenris felt an unaccountable sense of loneliness. He would have welcomed the mage's barbed quips and sarcastic wit, even his whining and complaining. To see him in this state, broken and near death... once, Fenris might have bee pleased, satisfied, to see his hated enemy brought low, yet now he felt no animosity towards the apostate – only frustration at his inadequate skills to help him.

“Wake up,” he murmured quietly. “Open your eyes.” He cradled the pale face almost tenderly between his palms, staring intently down at the closed eyes. Anders made no answer, though his eyelids shivered and flickered briefly, revealing a glimpse of white before closing again.

“Anders,” Fenris called softly. Anders slowly opened his eyes, his amber gaze unfocused as he blinked slowly.

“Where am I?” he murmured hoarsely.

“We are still underground,” replied Fenris quietly. “I found a stream. You should drink; you've lost a lot of blood.”

Anders blinked again and tried to focus on the elf. “Fenris?”

“Yes, Fenris,” replied the elf. He slid an arm around the mage's shoulders and helped him to sit up; Anders blinked dazedly as he slumped against the elf. Fenris took a small drinking cup out of the backpack; he dipped it into the cool running water then brought the cup carefully to Anders' lips.

“Drink,” he ordered, and Anders obeyed, sipping slowly. When the cup was empty, Fenris set it down. Anders sighed faintly and leaned his head back against the elf's shoulder as his eyelids drooped closed.

“Anders?” Fenris reached up and tapped the mage's bloodless cheek lightly. “Stay with me, Anders.”

Anders made a small sound of protest but opened his eyes wearily. “So tired,” he whispered. “Hawke?”

“Hawke is waiting for us,” replied Fenris with a certainty he didn't entirely feel.

They sat in silence for a while, the mage encircled within the steady, sure embrace of the elf. After a while, Fenris gently called Anders' name; then again, a little louder and more insistent when the apostate didn't respond.

“Anders, wake up!” he ordered, but Anders' eyes remained closed, his breathing harsh and loud in the otherwise-silent space. Fenris felt for the mage's pulse; it was slow yet steady. Laying Anders down, Fenris peeled back first one eyelid and then the other. He frowned; the right pupil was wider and darker than the left. He shook his head; he had no idea what this meant and cursed his lack of experience. He had no way to diagnose what ailed the mage; he had no doubt the mage himself would have known at a glance what was wrong, but Fenris himself was utterly baffled. He slapped Anders' cheek again, a little harder this time, and called Anders once more, but the blond man was utterly unresponsive, his breathing noisy and slow.

Fenris sat back on his haunches and huffed white hair out of his face. He was at the limit of what he could do. This was a battle he did not know how to fight. His fingers itched to do something, but he was helpless to know what.

He bent low over the mage's still form and took Anders' face once more between his hands.

“You will not die,” he declared, voice low and insistent. “I will not allow it.”

Then he slung the backpack onto his back once more before carefully gathering Anders back up into his arms once more. Glancing around the cavern, he picked the left of the two exits which seemed to lead back uphill again, and began to follow it.


	7. Night-time discoveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris realises he's been wrong.

The first seizure struck at some point in the early hours of the morning.

Fenris had been forced to concede defeat and acknowledge his own weariness and fatigue; backtracking a little, he'd investigated a small side passage that had led into a small cave – little more than a pocket in the rock really, just large enough for the two men to stretch out in overly-intimate proximity. He'd pulled out a blanket from the backpack – a soft, worn, grey thing, with a small griffon woven into one corner; a memento from the mage's time in the Grey Wardens, no doubt – and setting the backpack behind his shoulders as a pillow, he'd settled the unconscious mage against his side, Anders' head resting over the elf's heart and with the blanket drawn up over them both. He kept his sword by his side in case anything should come upon them in the darkness, but all seemed quiet. Despite his weariness, sleep seemed slow in coming, and Fenris was uncertain how long he had lain there, staring into the darkness before awareness drifted into dreaming.

His eyes snapped open and he was startled into instant wakefulness as he felt the blond man twitch next to him. “Anders?”

His only answer was a low gurgling noise as Anders began to thrash, limbs spasming helplessly as he convulsed. Fenris instinctively flung his arms around the helpless man as Anders jerked and twitched uncontrollably, still making that disturbing liquid gurgling sound deep in his throat.

Fenris had no idea how long the seizure lasted, though it could only have been minutes that passed before Anders slowly went limp once more apart from an occasional twitch of an arm. Fenris found his own heart was racing with alarm, even as Anders' breathing returned to a slow, even pace. With an effort of will, his lyrium brandings flared into silvery light as he leaned over the mage, running his eyes slowly over Anders' still form. Lightly he brushed the tousled blond hair back out of Anders' face before tracing his fingers over the fevered brow.

“Anders,” he called gently. But as before, there was no response. He could feel the dying man slipping away from him, heartbeat by heartbeat. He felt anger flare within him as he crouched over the mage and dug his fingers into Anders' forearms.

“Damn you, mage!” he growled, his fingers gouging into the unresponsive flesh. “Open your eyes, Maker curse you!”

He may as well have been berating a corpse for all the good it did; a breathing, fevered corpse, but one too far gone to hear him. He released Anders' arms and tenderly cupped the mage's face between his palms. “Please come back,” he whispered, the unfamiliar words slipping haltingly from his lips. “I... want you.” He stared into the still face for long minutes, barely daring to breathe himself, before groaning as he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to Anders'. “Please. Live.”

A faint sound, not much more than a faintly-breathed sigh, slipped from Anders, and Fenris' eyes snapped open as he drew back. “Anders?” he whispered hopefully.

Anders opened his eyes slowly; they tracked over Fenris' face without a flicker of recognition, then slowly closed again.

Fenris unstoppered his water canteen and poured a little water into the palm of his hand, then carefully trickled it over Anders' forehead before wiping his wet palm down the side of the pale face. He repeated this several times until Anders' hair was damp and plastered wetly to his face, collar soaked, before he stoppered the canteen and turned to unfastening the mage's feathered jacket and patchwork tunic, in an effort to quench the fever that burned in his spare frame. Slowly he stripped Anders down to his ragged, bloodstained shirt and trews, hands uncharacteristically gentle as he slowly unbuttoned the shirt. He peeled back the thin fabric, then drew back with a muttered oath before lightly tracing his fingers over the mottled bruises adorning the mage's ribs.

He had not realised just how gaunt and underfed the mage was until this moment. The jacket and robes had given Anders a deceptive bulk. He'd known slaves back in Tevinter with more flesh upon their bones. He knew Hawke had had baskets of food sent to Anders' Darktown clinic; had the mage fed them to his patients, taking little for himself? The elf ran a disbelieving hand down Anders' side. The man was on the verge of starving.

Fenris sat back, mind reeling. How had he been so oblivious to the truth under his very nose all this time? Had his hatred of all mages blinded him so badly that he could no longer trust the evidence of his own eyes?

His eyes slowly devoured the sight of Anders' unclothed body, slowly tracing up the stark white skin to the man's face, framed by unruly blond hair.

How had he thought this man an enemy? He had offered Anders nothing but insults and enmity; he had warned Hawke not to trust him. And Anders had... simply taken it. Offered a few teasing barbs in return, but nothing much stronger; indeed, often Fenris had had the feeling the mage was almost... teasing him. His anger had only had real heat whenever the elf had disparaged the lot of mages, and for that Fenris felt almost a twinge of regret. Anders had not spoken much of his time in the Circle, but from what little Fenris had paid attention to, it sounded little better than slavery. He'd thought it merely exaggeration on the mage's part, and yet....

He felt an unfamiliar emotion stirring deep within as he realised that the mage could die here without his ever having the chance to discover him as a friend. Maybe something more.

Fenris covered his face with his hand and groaned. “I have been a fool,” he muttered to himself. He glanced up as Anders twitched slightly, then moaned. Gently, Fenris slid in behind him again, gathering the mage carefully into his arms. “Shhh, it's alright,” he said soothingly. “You are safe.”

Anders quietened again in his arms. After a while, Fenris drew the blanket back up over them both, and drifted off to sleep, his arms never once relaxing their protective embrace.


	8. Onwards and Upwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way is up....

Even before the silent glow of the false dawn had begun to give way to the first rosy hues of sunrise, Hawke was already up out of his bedroll and strapping himself into his armour. Merrill was still rubbing her eyes blearily as she poked the dull embers of the fire back into life and added a few twigs; Isabela was still snoring faintly beneath her blanket.

Varric stomped up the slight incline from the nearby river with the kettle full of water. Merrill nodded thanks as she hung it on the small iron tripod then continued feeding fresh wood to the fire.

“We don't have time for that,” growled Hawke as he wrestled with a strap on his breastplate.

“Now, kiddo, we can spare long enough for a drink to wake us up properly,” chided Varric. “You know what the Rivaini's like in the mornings.”

“She's bad enough after her morning brew,”observed Merrill. “I wouldn't like to be the one waking her without it.”

“Wake me without what?” groused Isabela, rolling over and pushing back her blanket. Merrill tossed a handful of grounds into the kettle as it started to boil.

Varric made his way round the camp fire towards Hawke. “I know you're worried, Hawke,” he said quietly. “We all are. We'll be on our way soon, but a few minutes now won't make any difference to Blondie and the elf.”

Hawke paused as he tightened a strap on his vambrace, staring down at the dwarf with sombre eyes.

“If anything has happened to Anders – _or_ Fenris – then I will only have myself to blame. I should have gone after Anders myself. If he's hurt – or worse....” He broke off, and glanced over at the cave mouth.

“It's not your fault,” said Varric. “Well- OK, it is your fault, but how is you blaming yourself going to help matters any? What's done is done, and it can't be undone. We've just got to deal with it as best we can. Blondie's not a helpless babe in arms, kid; he's an apostate mage sharing headspace with a Fade spirit who's been on the run from the templars for longer than we've known him. He's gotten out of more scrapes than you've had hot dinners, and I'll wager it'd take more than a cave-in and a few darkspawn to put him down. Likewise the elf. Put the two of 'em together, and assuming they don't kill each other in the first five minutes then I'd wager there's not a force in all of Thedas could stand up to the pair of 'em.”

Hawke nodded slowly. “You're right,” he said slowly.

“Of course I'm right,” replied the dwarf. “Now c'mon and have a drink and a bite to eat. And think about how we're all going to kick that crazy mage's butt for scaring us half to death with worry over him when we find him.”

“And Fenris?”

“Ah, the elf's likely already gotten a head-start on the butt-kicking,” said Varric with a wave of his hand as he made his way back towards the fire.

Hawke smiled ruefully and reflected that Varric was likely right on that count too.

 

* * *

 

Fenris awoke with a start from a restless, fitful sleep as Anders twitched in his arms. He stared down in alarm, dreading another seizure; two more had followed shortly after the first, but to his relief the mage merely clutched briefly at the arms embracing him, uttering a brief whimper, before growing still once more. Fenris stroked the disheveled blond hair gently, brushing it back from the comatose man's forehead before lightly touching Anders' brow with his fingers. Heat still radiated from the apostate's thin frame, and Fenris sighed. The mage was fading fast, and Fenris feared he would not survive much longer.

He had no idea what time it was; down here in the tunnels there was no way to measure the passing of time. He sat up carefully, cradling Anders against his chest as he let the power flow through his lyrium brandings, lighting up the small nook with a soft silvery glow. He stuffed the mage's tunic and jacket into the backpack which he then slung onto his back before wrapping Anders gently in his Warden blanket. Sliding his greatsword out into the stone passageway, Fenris carefully wriggled out after it with Anders in his arms. He gently laid the mage down whilst he slung the greatsword back into place on his back beside the pack, then he gathered up the mage and set off again.

The passageway was steadily inclining upwards as it curved round, and gradually Fenris noticed the air smelt a little fresher here; there was even a faint wisp of a breeze. They must be getting close to the surface. His steps grew lighter at the thought they might soon be in the fresh air; it couldn't come soon enough. He was heartily sick of the sight of stone walls and mossy green half-light. He scoffed silently at himself – much more of this and he'd end up as bad as Merrill, curling up under trees and mooning over flowers. What would Varric make of that, he wondered?

He rounded a corner and his smile faded as he stared at the blank rock face in front of him.

A dead end.

He stared around; bare rock walls on all sides save behind him, the way he had come. The stone seemed to mock him as he glared at it.

He had felt the faint breeze upon his face; he couldn't have imagined it! Or could he? He stared hopelessly around him for several minutes, then glanced up... and groaned.

He was standing below what appeared to be a natural chimney in the rock; there, high above him, he could see a distant patch of grey sky. Freedom so close, and yet so far away. It had to be a good thirty feet or more, by his estimate, up a narrow tube of rock maybe three feet across at most, with poor footing and little by way of decent handholds. It would have been enough of a challenge had he been by himself, but nigh impossible with Anders in his arms.

And yet, he had to try.

Laying the mage down, he shrugged off the backpack; it would only get in the way as he tried to climb anyhow. Pulling out Anders' tunic and jacket, he rooted through the bag for anything else of conceivable use. He stared at the healing kit; he had no idea how to use it, and without Anders awake to direct him, it was useless to him. He tossed it aside, and instead reached for the remaining bandages. He stared at them for a moment, then glanced down at Anders. He had the faint glimmering of an idea....

It was harder dressing the limp, uncooperative mage than it had been to undress him in the first place. But he persisted patiently until finally the mage was dressed. Then he fashioned a sling from the blanket and the bandages, and with some difficulty and much muttered swearing he managed to tie the unconscious Anders to his back. The mage's head rested bonelessly upon Fenris' shoulder, cushioned from his armour by a fold of the blanket, his legs dangling limply as the elf braced his feet against the sides of the rock chimney and pushed up to grab a small sharp protrusion of stone.

The climb was long, slow and torturous. Anders was a dead weight upon his back, his breath hot against the side of Fenris' neck. Within the first few feet of the climb, the elf was drenched in sweat, his white hair plastering itself flatly against his skin as drops of perspiration rolled down his forehead and stung his eyes. Inch by agonising inch, he slowly made his way upwards, eyes ever fixed upon that small circle of sky far above. His arms and legs trembled with the strain, his bare feet soon scratched and bleeding as they sought footholds that were little more than cracks in the rock that would scarce have given purchase to a squirrel, much less a man. Or elf. He prayed silently to the Maker that Anders wouldn't have another seizure whilst he climbed; it would have likely plunged them both to their deaths.

Perhaps the Maker heard him and took pity. Maybe it was nothing more than sheer blind luck. Whichever it was, Anders remained still and silent as Fenris climbed, dragging them both higher and higher.

Several times, he had to pause when the greatsword – tied beside Anders, with a fold of blanket to protect him – caught on some outcropping of stone and he had to carefully move round until it freed itself with a harsh metallic scraping sound that set his teeth on edge. His arms were quivering with the strain of bearing both his own weight and that of the taller man; his nails chipped, broken, his fingers bloody. Yet he did not give up. Slowly, painfully, hard-won inch by inch, he edged higher, that patch of sky steadily growing larger until he could feel the cooling breeze blow across his face, and a questing, trembling hand felt soil and grass beneath his fingers.

He could have wept for joy, if he had not been utterly exhausted. Desperately his fingers scrabbled for purchase as he pushed himself higher with his toes, ignoring the pain as one hand curled around a gnarled tree root. With one last heroic effort, he pulled himself up and over the edge of the hole and lay there for some minutes, his feet still dangling over the drop. Then with a groan he shoved his feet against the opposite wall of the chimney and dragged himself out of the hole.

They were out. They were free.


	9. "You can't take me anywhere...."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Companions are reunited.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there on the grass beneath the shady oak tree, Anders still tied to his back, but eventually he stirred and began to fumble with the knots. His hands were clumsy, nails torn and fingers bleeding, but he patiently persisted until finally he had worked the knots loose and the mage rolled over onto his back, free of the elf.

Fenris sat up and took stock of the situation. They had escaped the maze of narrow tunnels but now he was uncertain as to where they were in relation to the main cavern where they had left the rest of the party. He guessed they were perhaps some way west of the cave entrance, but he wasn't sure just how far.

He turned his attention to Anders, ignoring his own discomforts. The mage had not stirred once, and up here in the daylight he looked ghastly. His face was grey and drawn, dark purplish shadows beneath the sunken eyes, the skin waxy. Stains of blood still clung to his hair, and a small thin rivulet of fresh blood was trickling slowly from that ear. Fenris frowned; he wasn't sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain that was a bad sign. Grabbing a handful of the bandages, he soaked them with a little water from his canteen and gently cleaned away the blood then patted Anders' fevered brow with the damp cloth. Anders was still and unresponsive, even when Fenris hesitantly took the mage's hand in his and gently squeezed it.

“Open your eyes,” he said quietly. “Just once. Please.” He pressed his cheek to the palm of Anders' hand, and closed his eyes. “I don't want you to die,” he whispered. “I don't know why, but I want- I _need_ you to live. Please.”

The hand remained limp, no sign of movement against his face. He reluctantly lowered the hand and gently placed it to rest upon Anders' chest, which rose and fell slowly with each stertorous breath.

“Maker help me, I don't know what to do,” he whispered, staring down at Anders hopelessly, his hands balling into fists uselessly at his side. Give him an enemy to fight and a sword in his hand and the elf knew surety and confidence of the outcome, but this was an enemy he could not fight. He could not defeat bleeding inside another man's body, infection, contusions within the brain. This was Anders' battlefield, not his; and it seemed the mage was losing. It was only a matter of time before he drew his last breath, and there was absolutely nothing Fenris could do.

But he could not sit idly by and watch.

Folding the Warden blanket over his arm, he gathered Anders up into his arms then slowly struggled to his feet. Maker, but he was tired; his whole body ached, arms and legs complaining of the strain. He bore the discomfort silently as he turned and started to slowly make his way downhill, the grass cool and soothing against his lacerated feet. He could only hope and pray that he would find Hawke and the others before it was too late for last goodbyes to his mage.

 

* * *

 

Varric doused the fire and kicked dirt over the smoking ashes with his boots, stomping it down until only blackened earth and the smell of wood smoke were left to show where it had been. Hawke watched impatiently as the dwarf slung his backpack onto his back, checking to make sure his beloved Bianca was securely in place but ready to hand.

“Where's Merrill?” asked Hawke, glancing round. Isabela gestured over to a clump of trees and Hawke rolled his eyes. “When you've quite finished communing with Nature, Merrill?” he called.

Merrill emerged from the trees, straightening her pouches and blushing. She glanced up as she walked towards them, and her footsteps faltered. “Oh sweet Maker!” she cried, and pointed up at the hillside above the cave entrance.

Everyone whirled round to see what had distracted her. Hawke's eyes widened as he spotted the figure of the elf slowly staggering down the grassy slope towards them, the inert and bloodied form of the mage cradled limply in his arms. The elf's face was set in grim lines of despair, and Hawke's heart sank.

“ _Anders!_ ” he cried, and threw himself towards them, springing from rock to rock up the base of the hill then sprinting up the hill, Isabela at his heels and Varric huffing as he brought up the rear. Hawke reached for the mage then halted, staring into the pale bloodless face. “Maker, no... is he...?”

“He lives,” replied Fenris quietly. “But not, I fear, for much longer.”

Hawke reached to take Anders, but paused as Fenris frowned, his arms tightening protectively around the mage. He seemed reluctant to yield up his burden, and Hawke let his hands fall to his sides in helpless confusion. “Healing potions – who's got healing potions?” he asked, staring round at the others as Merrill ran up to join them. Varric started rooting around in his backpack as Isabela produced a small flask and unstoppered it, passing it wordlessly to Hawke as Fenris sank to the ground, cradling Anders gently. Hawke fell to his knees beside them and carefully set the flask to Anders' lips, tilting it until the liquid trickled slowly into his mouth.

Anders gasped faintly then reflexively swallowed the liquid, shivering slightly. Eyes still closed, he licked his lips. Hawke carefully tilted the flask again and Anders began to drink. As the flask emptied and Hawke tossed it aside, empty, Varric thrust another one into his waiting hand. Anders' eyes began to slowly flicker open as he drained the last drops from the second flask, and Hawke groaned in relief, echoed by the others.

Anders slowly blinked in confusion as he lay in Fenris' arms. “Did I miss something?” he murmured weakly as Hawke took one of his hands in both of his and bowed his head over it.

“You gave us all a nasty turn, Blondie,” said Varric sombrely. “We thought the elf was bringing us a dead mage to bury.”

“I _must_ be dead,” replied Anders. “It's either that or I'm dreaming, because I could swear that I'm being cuddled by Fenris.”

“I am not _cuddling_ you, mage,” replied Fenris, though without the usual rancour in his voice normally reserved for the apostate. Isabela raised an eyebrow, then she and Varric exchanged glances. Varric mimed writing something, and Isabela nodded and gave a single thumbs-up.

Oblivious, Hawke raised his head and glared at Anders, reaching out and grasping the mage's feathered shoulders. “You... you....” He leaned closer until their faces were merely inches apart.

“I don't know if you're going to kiss me or kill me!” exclaimed Anders, shrinking back.

“He will do neither,” growled Fenris, pulling Anders closer to his chest and glaring back at Hawke.

“Will someone please tell me what in the name of Andraste's flaming knickers is going on?” cried Anders plaintively. Hawke and Fenris stared at each other, looking for all the world like two mabari facing off over a bone. Anders stirred and made to sit up then fell back with a soft hiss, clutching at his stomach. Hawke and Fenris both instantly turned their attention to the mage as he pressed his hand over his wound. “Maker, that hurts,” he moaned.

Fenris pulled open the jacket and pushed aside the worn patchwork leather tunic to reveal the bloodstained shirt beneath. Hawke's eyes widened in alarm.

“It's not as bad as it looks!” protested Anders feebly, trying to hide the dark stains with his hands. Hawke slapped his hands aside and tugged up the shirt, and muttered an oath as he stared at the blood-soaked bandages beneath. Anders gave up trying to fight him off weakly, and merely lay still as Hawke traced his fingers lightly over the crimson folds of fabric.

“How bad?” he asked Fenris.

“Bad enough,” replied the elf. “Spear wound.”

Hawke lifted his head to glare anew at the elf. “I trusted you to protect him!” he growled.

“Perhaps you should have kept a closer eye on him yourself!” snarled the elf.

“Perhaps I should!” snapped back Hawke angrily.

“Hello, still down here? Mage in need of healing?” protested Anders weakly, lifting a hand. “D'you think you two could fight over me later when I'm not bleeding to death, perhaps?”

“That's an awful lot of blood,” remarked Merrill, dropping down to her knees beside Anders and pushing at Hawke. “You two can argue later. Now shoo.”

“You heard Daisy, Hawke; let's go make ourselves useful, unless you have some hitherto unsuspected healing skills you haven't told me about yet?” suggested Varric.

Hawke shook his head. “I don't. But....”

“Hawke. Go,” said Anders quietly. “I'll be fine.”

Reluctantly, Hawke pushed himself up off the ground and followed Varric back downhill, glancing back at Anders uncertainly before turning away, shaking his head.

“You can make yourself useful, too,” Merrill told Fenris.

“I'm staying,” he replied gruffly. Anders glanced up at him with a mischievous smirk.

“Going to hold my hand?” he suggested.

“Maybe I am,” replied Fenris affably. Anders gaped at him.

“I, I was... I was joking!” he stammered.

“Are you afraid I'm not?” replied the elf as Isabela snickered. Anders glared at her.

“Don't you have somewhere else to be?” he asked pointedly.

“Not right now, no,” she replied cheerfully. “And it's amusing watching you two. Oh, the stories I'm writing in my head right now....” She threw up her hands in submission as Anders and Fenris both glared daggers at her in unison. “OK, OK, I'm going!” she laughed, backing away then turning and sashaying back down the hill towards the camp. A brief snatch of singing floated back up to them. “Fenris and Anders, sitting in a tree, K. I. S. S. I. N. G!”

“Kill me now,” groaned Anders, putting a hand over his eyes.

“After the trouble I went through to keep you alive? I think not,” replied Fenris coolly.

“When you put it like that-” began Anders, then broke off with a small cry as Merrill pulled away the dressing from the spear wound.

“Messy,” Merrill observed. “You should have parried.”

“What?” asked Fenris, frowning, as Merrill carefully probed the wound. Anders bit his lip and whimpered faintly.

“It's what Varric always says when he gets poked full of holes. He reminds himself to parry next time.” She glanced up at the pale-faced mage. “Can you heal yourself yet?”

Anders closed his eyes and flexed the fingers of one hand. “Not much mana,” he said quietly.

“I have lyrium,” replied Merrill, twisting round to untie the top of a pouch. She pulled out a small vial of blue liquid and uncorked it. Fenris took it from her fingers and gently held it to Anders' lips. He drank the small draught down swiftly, then licked the last drops from his lips before placing his hand over the wound. Eyes still closed, he let healing energies flow into the wound steadily, reaching within himself to knit together ripped intestine, torn muscle, punctured spleen; drawing together rendered tissues, closing broken blood vessels, restoring blood flow where needed and driving out infection. He reached deeper inside himself to call forth white blood cells to work their own internal healing. Fresh new skin closed over the wound beneath his fingers. He could feel himself growing exhausted as his body's own defences kicked in under the influence of the magic.

He put a hand to his head and the blue glow of magic danced from his fingers once more as he let the healing flow into his head, alleviating the last traces of pain from the concussion which the two healing potions had not quite healed. He was distantly aware of Fenris helping him to sit up as Merrill wound soft, clean bandages around his torso, covering the barely-closed wound with another protective dressing. He let his hand fall limply to his side as he slumped against the elf, his eyes still closed.

“Is he...” Fenris asked hesitantly.

“Just exhausted,” replied Merrill quietly. “Healing takes its own toll on the body, even when someone else is doing the healing. It's much worse if you're healing yourself, of course, because you haven't got the reserves to begin with. He should rest before we try to take him anywhere.”

“You can't take me anywhere,” Anders slurred quietly, his eyes still closed. “People will talk.”

“People are already talking,” Merrill replied innocently. “I'm sure Varric and Isabela are talking about it right now.”


	10. The Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke, or Fenris?

Varric and Isabela had gone back up the hill with a coil of rope to find the shaft where Fenris had left the backpack; when they came back with Anders' backpack, they both eyed Fenris with new respect.

“That hole had to be at least thirty feet by my reckoning,” Varric was exclaiming.

“No, I make it thirty-five by the rope I paid out,” Isabela disagreed.

“The elf's taller than me,” dismissed Varric.

“Not by a whole five feet he isn't!” protested the Rivaini.

“Be silent or you'll wake the mage,” growled Fenris from across the fire. Anders was curled up in his blanket, sleeping the rest of the utterly exhausted. Fenris sat by one side of him, one protective hand resting lightly upon the sleeping mage's shoulder, whilst Hawke sat upon the other, glowering at him.

“If the wind changes you'll be stuck like that,” observed Merrill as she handed a bowl of stew to him.

“What?” exclaimed Hawke, nonplussed as she handed another bowl to Fenris.

“Your face,” she said, gesturing. “It's something my Keeper used to tell me.”

Isabela glanced from Hawke to Fenris and raised an eyebrow. “So, who's the lucky boy then?”

“My money's on the mage,” Varric snorted as he sat down and accepted a bowl of stew. Hawke and Fenris both bristled in unison.

“This is no laughing matter,” stated the elf coldly.

“Oh, I disagree,” Isabela chuckled quietly to herself as Hawke and Fenris glared at each other, the elf's hand tightening possessively upon Anders' shoulder. Drowsily, without opening his eyes, Anders slapped clumsily at the hand. “Not the claws, Pounce,” he slurred, turning his face into the pillow and hunching deeper into his blanket. Abashed, Fenris lifted his hand away. Hawke snickered, and Fenris narrowed his eyes.

“This is not over, Hawke,” he hissed quietly. “Not until he makes his choice.”

“He doesn't even know he _has_ a choice,” retorted Hawke, rising to his feet. “You're presuming-” Fenris likewise rose to his feet, squaring up to the larger man, baring his teeth in a feral snarl.

“Shut up the pair of you,” muttered Merrill as she thrust her small lithe body between them and pushed them apart. “Look at the pair of you! You should be ashamed of yourselves. Like a pair of dogs-”

“I think you should stop right there, don't you, Merrill?” suggested Isabela, deftly slipping a hand over the Dalish elf's mouth. “Ooh, look over there, a pretty flower!”

“Where?” asked Merrill, glancing over to where the pirate was pointing then following her away from the campfire and the two men.

Hawke and Fenris glowered at each other then turned away to sit on either side of the sleeping man once more. Varric sighed and shook his head.

“Give it a break you two,” he warned. “Blondie's had enough excitement for a month without you two protesting your undying love for him at each other.”

“What? No, I-” began Hawke as Fenris snarled, “I am _not_ in-”

“Of course you aren't, and my grandmother was a hurlock,” Varric waved his hand dismissively. “I don't care how you deal with it between yourselves, but I'm suggesting you keep a lid on it until after we get Blondie back safely home and tucked up in that little shack he calls a clinic back in Darktown. Can you both at least agree on that much?”

The two warriors glared at each other.

“I can if he does,” muttered Hawke.

“For the sake of Anders, I can,” replied Fenris quietly.

“Fine. Glad that's settled. Now shut up and eat your stew,” ordered Varric.

The elf and the man eyed each other warily over the rims of their bowls. This was not over.

Between them, Anders began to gently snore.

 

 _~ FIN ~_

 

* * *

 

 **Epilogue:**

“What are you doing?” asked Hawke.

“Putting out milk. I miss having a cat around,” Anders replied wistfully. “But I think the refugees have scared them all off. Or maybe eaten them.” He straightened up and turned to smile at Hawke.

In the shadows of the clinic, Fenris paused, one foot in the doorway as he heard the sound of voices. He had hoped to find the mage alone. He drew back silently, watching from the shadows.

Anders stepped closer to the warrior, taking courage from the man's teasing, flirting tone. Fenris shook his head slowly. _No. Maker, no. Don't do it. Not him...._

“I'm still a man,” said Anders softly. “Don't expect me to resist forever.” There was a world of longing in his voice; Fenris gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists at his sides. It should be _him_. Those words should be for _his_ ears.... _Too late. Oh Maker, Too late._

“I don't want you to resist,” replied Hawke, smiling. Anders' eyes widened even as Fenris closed his eyes, tears springing unbidden, hot and shameful. He turned away as the mage flung himself into the ready arms of the warrior; blindly, the elf stumbled away from the pair, back through the empty clinic. He paused by the door, leaning his forehead against the cool wooden frame as he wrestled his grief back under control.

Behind him, he heard footsteps as Anders walked back inside. The mage halted as he spotted Fenris leaning against the doorframe, head bowed with his back to the room.

“Fenris!” Anders exclaimed, surprised. “What brings you here? Can I help you?”

Slowly the elf straightened and shook his head, not turning.

“No,” he said gently.

Then he slowly walked away.


End file.
